


The Island of Misfit Boys

by orbiting_saturn



Series: The Misfit Boys 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the fight between Lucifer and Michael, Sam is left to deal with a bitchy, human Cas and a silent, broken Dean. He feels like the last sane man on Earth and it's driving him crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Island of Misfit Boys

He's not meant to have this. Breath whispering like a hot breeze in his ear, the orangey lights of dawn pushing at the edge of shadows around the heavy drapes. The world is shut out of this place and _his_ world narrowed down to the long lines of his fingers splayed against an expanse of pale-skinned chest. He watches through half-mast lids the rise and fall of his knuckles and fingernails.

He's all warmth; cocooned in heat, from the blankets shucked down to his hips, from the heavy air in the room, from the flushed press of skin curved into his side. Through the dimness he blinks a languorous gaze over the man beside him, curls his fingers over the loose hand draped beside his. His hand covers the other completely, eclipses it with superior size, if not delicacy or beauty. His fingers overlap it, when aligned like this. He's spent the last half of his life dwarfing everybody, everything, but here he doesn't feel large. He feels like a shelter.

"Sam?" His name breathed out like that? It curls the corners of his lips in, drops his lids to savor the sound. He dips his head close, noses through sweaty hair curled at the temple. "Cas?" he mimics back.

The body beside his, naked and sweat-tacky, stretches out in a long line of taut muscle and skin. Cas makes a humming noise in his throat and shakes a little under the tension of the stretch. Sam's hand falls back to Cas' chest when he raises his arms, arches his back and sort of topples to his side to face Sam completely. He always wakes this way, like a cat twisting itself out of a nap-sprawl. Moments like these are when he loves Cas.

~*~*~*~  
 _present_ :

It's been said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. When he stares into his brother's, all he sees is brown-veined green, bleeding into black. All he sees are dull eyes. They used to sparkle. They used to shine. Now Sam's not quite sure that they see at all. Or maybe it's that they see _too much_. Either way, there's nothing in them. But they always stare back, never a flicker of discomfort when he ducks his head down to search.

A crashing sound in the next room over perks him up. "God damn it!" shouted in a rough voice, jerks his head around. He flicks his eyes back to Dean. His brother turns his face away from the commotion, slides around Sam's body and heads out the front door. If Dean could speak, Sam is sure he would have said, "You deal with it."

So that's what Sam does. That's what he's done ever since his brother said 'yes' to Michael.

Heading into the kitchen, he finds Cas kneeling on the linoleum to pick up shards of the plate he's just dropped. Cas doesn't look up at him when he enters, just collects the jagged pieces in the cupped palm of his bad hand. Sam grabs the trash bin and drags it over to help.

There's a heavy silence that sneaks into their house, like an uninvited guest, closing up their throats and making the air tense under the weight of it. It falls over Sam and Cas as they clean up the mess. Sam knows there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but decides not to examine it.

Once they've collected the pieces they can, Sam retrieves the broom and dustpan. When he turns back, Cas is leaning against the cabinet, staring intently at his disfigured right hand. He's never been consoled much by the fact that he's ambidextrous, one of those remaining angelic perks.

After he's swept up the last of the shards, Sam reaches out his hand to the man on the floor. "Come on," he says when Cas looks up at him. "We'll finish up the dishes together."

He gets a hooded stare, a long pause, and then Cas slips the fingers of his ruined hand into Sam's. The pressure of his grip in Sam's is weak, but Sam's is firm and strong enough the pull Cas into a stand.

"It irritates me that I need your assistance with such a menial task," Cas admits solemnly as he hitches his loose cargo pants up on his skinny hips. He's got three pairs of the same pants in three different colors and they're the only pants he owns. Sam likes how they always slide down, reveal a patch of skin under the hem of Cas' shrunken t-shirts. All of his clothes had fit him when Sam stole them from the K-Mart in Tuscaloosa. But that was before half of the world burned and Cas wasn't the only person left who dropped too many pounds in the aftermath.

"You don't _need_ my help, Cas," Sam tells him truthfully. "Doesn't mean I don't want to though."

Cas gives him a dubious look, but turns back to the sink. For a little while, they wash dishes in tepid well water. There's still no running water, but the farmhouse has been around for nearly eighty years and is better equipped to deal with a return to basics than most others.

While they work, Cas' shoulder keeps brushing Sam's bicep. Sam steals sidelong glances down the loose collar of Cas' t-shirt, catching glimpses of a delicate clavicle. He barely resists the urge to drag his thumb along the pretty line of it, knows he'll get slapped away with Cas' soapy hands. They've been lovers for five months now, but Cas doesn't care much for affectionate touches. He doesn't understand the point of touching without intent.

Cas twists the plate in his hand towards Sam, but the action causes an involuntary jerk of the damaged muscles. They both watch the plate bounce off of the edge of counter and shatter on the floor. Cas stares down at fragments with a stormy look on his face, a hundred furious emotions flickering in the depths of his scary-blue eyes.

To stave off an outburst, Sam grips Cas' neck in his wet hands and yanks him into a kiss. Their lips smash together artlessly, stinging against cutting teeth. Cas knows it for the diversionary tactic it is, but opens himself to it anyway, hot tongue sweeping into Sam's mouth hungrily.

Sam hustles Cas up against the wall, hunching down uncomfortably to let Cas eat at his swollen lips. Cas has never learned to kiss with any kind of finesse and Sam has never bothered to teach him. It gets him rock hard, the way Cas' teeth scrape brutally, the way his tongue fucks into his mouth, the way his hand grips too tight in Sam's hair. He might want to be tender and loving with Cas, but thinks he'd hate it if Cas ever returned the sentiment. That just wouldn't be Cas.

They don't bother with lingering touches, Cas just reaches between them with his good hand and tears open the button fly of his pants. They fall easily down to his ankles and the kiss is broken so Cas can grip Sam's neck and push him to his knees. There's no gentle urging, only needy demand that has Sam opening his mouth over Cas' half-hard cock. He only figured out a month ago that this is the reason Cas forgoes underwear completely.

Sam hadn't immediately enjoyed sucking cock; hadn't liked the taste or the way it made his jaw ache or the way his eyes watered furiously when Cas shoved into the back of his throat. But as this thing between them got deeper, the sounds Cas made, the clutching grasp of his hand in Sam's hair, the burst of that sharp, bitter flavor on his tongue made him hum with hunger for it. Cas loses control all of the time now, but he is never as lost as he is when Sam has his mouth on him.

Cas slides all the way in like this, filling out and swelling against Sam's tongue. He's riding the tide of barely suppressed anger, so Cas isn't gentle with Sam, not that he ever really is. The hand on Sam's neck squeezes tighter and drags him in, Cas' hips buck forward. Sam allows it for a minute, sucking and sliding until Cas is fully hard, but then it's too much and he wraps his hands tight around the sharp angles of Cas' hipbones and pushes him rough against the wall.

"Hold the fuck still," he growls, voice gritty and thick, before he's leaning back in to swirl his tongue around the head. He's found a rhythm to doing this now, just the way he knows Cas likes, tonguing the underside, hollowing his cheeks and opening his throat around the blunt head. He pulls off just long enough to suck Cas' balls into his mouth, lick kittenish along Cas' perineum. The growl he gets in response has him filling his mouth with cock again and he sucks hard, just the way Cas wants.

It takes him longer to get Cas off when he doesn’t start at full mast, so by the time Cas is close, Sam's dick is a furious press in his loose jeans. He releases Cas' hips, curling one around his pumping shaft and using the other to unbutton himself. With an artless shove, Sam's got his boxers and jeans down to mid-thigh and his hand wrapped tight around himself. The fingers at his neck tighten impossibly hard and he _knows_ Cas is watching him fist himself.

Cas wraps his fingers tight in Sam's hair and tugs hard enough that tears sting in his eyes. "I want to see you," Cas growls as Sam pulls his mouth off of Cas with a gasp. He slaps away Sam's loose grip and replaces it with his own hand. "Don't-don't stop," he commands as he starts his own sliding rhythm.

They stroke themselves together, Sam looking up with the fingers of his hand biting into the flesh of Cas' thigh. Cas' heavy-lidded gaze flickers between Sam's hand as it stripes furiously over his length and his still open mouth. Tongue slips slow over Sam's lower lip and then Cas is arching away from the wall with a groan, coming salty streams across Sam's face. The filthy lewdness of it catches his breath in his chest and Sam lets go all over the linoleum and Cas' rucked down pants.

He's still gasping and shaking on his knees when he hears the heavy tread of boots entering the kitchen. Swallowing thickly and surprised, Sam twists to look and sees Dean amble negligently to a cabinet and pull down a glass. His brother's eyes never skate his way, he never pauses in his task of filling the glass with water and turning to leave again. There's nothing, not a flicker of recognition or surprise to find his little brother on his knees with a come-shot splashed across his chin.

Cas' chuckle is dark and sarcastic, it jerks Sam's attention back to him. His lover already has his pants pulled back up and he's fastening them clumsily. He stumbles away, leaving Sam, an island in his lonely degradation. He feels like the last sane man on Earth and it's driving him crazy.

~*~*~*~  
 _ten months ago_ :

Three days and three nights passed and he's running on fumes. He'd been to Lisa Braeden's house and must have just missed Dean if the look on the woman's face had been any indication; the look of loss, like she had any right to dream of something more. His brother does these things to people, makes them dream of something bigger, something grander, and then saunters away on his bow-legged gait, kicking up the dust of regret and hollow inadequacy. How no one could ever seem to be enough for Dean.

He's leaning against his "borrowed" car, just off the road in Nowheresville, Indiana, drinking coffee that he wishes was whiskey. In his other hand, his cell phone, warm plastic cupped in the too-wide berth of his palm. Empty air in front of him one minute, Castiel the next. He doesn't bother complaining about the angel popping up only a hairbreadth away because what would be the point? Castiel neither understands nor cares for social niceties. And if he's honest with himself, Sam's pleased that Cas no longer recoils from him.

"Anything?" he asks, voice tight and so far from hopeful that it's almost a useless question.

Castiel answers with a short shake of his head. His eyes are narrowed and brow slightly furrowed and Sam has recently come to the realization that this is his pissed off face. Dean is nowhere to be found, possibly only seconds away from saying 'yes' to Michael and Cas is livid.

"I will sense it when Michael takes him," Cas tells him again. It's just his way of saying it hasn't happened _yet_.

"Maybe he won't," Sam suggests, but the words are weak even to his own ears. Cas actually rolls his eyes, _rolls his eyes_. Sam wonders what it is about himself that brings out the smartass in the normally unemotional angel. He thinks he should be bothered by this, but instead he feels inexplicably proud that he's able to invoke any reaction at all.

"So, what should we do now?" Sam asks, hangs his head and stuffs his chilled hands deep into his coat pockets. Indiana is sharply chilly.

"I suggest we imbibe copious amounts of alcohol and wait for the end to come." Castiel's voice is droll and disaffected, but Sam imagines he can hear a hint of sadness. It's probably just his ears playing tricks on him.

"I don’t think that's such a good-" Sam's response cuts off when he sees Cas jerk and stiffen. The angel looks off to the left, like he's seeing something in the far off distance and then suddenly his face falls, like he's just been gut-punched.

"It is done," Cas whispers, soft and broken. Sam would cry, shout and rant maybe, but then Cas is collapsing to his knees, fingers fisting in frost-coated crabgrass while he retches, back arching like an angry cat. Castiel doesn't eat, so there's nothing that comes up, but he dry-heaves again and again and tears slide from the corners of shut eyes.

For long moments, Sam stares down at the bare skin of Castiel's neck, hypnotized by how vulnerable it looks in the gray light of the day. There's a sheen to it, almost like the convulsions are bringing up a sweat. Angels don't sweat, he thinks. His hands are useless at his sides, but his mind is wonderfully blank. There's nothing, _nothing_ he can do and for once his lack of control is the most blissfully freeing thing he's felt in what seems like forever.

After what could be only minutes or hours, the retching subsides. Castiel remains hunched on the ground, breathing shaky breaths that puff steam in the cold air. One hand releases its grip on the ground and Cas swipes the back across his mouth and grunts irritably. Sam couldn't be more grateful that the angel has finally lost his constant stoicism. One of them had to do it, and for once, it didn't have to be Sam.

Castiel rises from his crouch on shaky legs, every limb of his slender vessel trembling and juddering in the aftermath. But his face, when he finally tilts it back towards Sam, who is gaping and stunned and as useless as ever, is cool and blank.

"I have to go," Castiel tells him. "Go to Bobby's and wait for me there. Do not stop until you get there, no matter what you see on your way. Do not leave until I find you again. And, Sam," he pauses, steps forward and shoves into Sam's chest so hard he nearly over-balances. "Do _not_ say 'yes' to Lucifer if he finds you."

When Sam glances down, Castiel's knuckles are grinding into his breastbone, a shining angel blade gripped tight in his fist. "Take it," Castiel commands.

As soon as his fingers close around the cool hilt, Castiel is gone, leaving only a gust of warm air in his wake.

~*~*~*~  
 _present_ :

Later that night, Sam sits on the edge of the bed he shares with Castiel, staring down at the lines on his wide palms. Every creak in the old house, every sigh of cloth against skin, every rustle and late night whisper is amplified in this empty nowhere. There are acres of nothing on every side of them, three men and fields of mice and beetles. If he looked out the window, he would see that burnt out shell of the neighboring farmhouse on the horizon, crooked and bleak in the light of a half moon. Sam doesn't look.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," Cas grumbles behind him, the bedsprings groaning as he adds his slight weight.

"Fuck you, Cas," Sam snaps, barely containing the urge to twist around and backhand his smart mouth. Cas has never learned to be gentle with Sam, especially not when he needs it most. "Sometimes I fucking hate you."

"And sometimes you love me," Cas observes steadily, shifting and jostling the mattress. "What a contrary creature you are, Sam."

"Yeah, well, I'm human," he responds, sneering at the curling, floral wallpaper, the yellowed, lace-trimmed curtains. He hates this room, but it was the largest one with the largest bed. They tried to ignore the grandma décor, but it was tough when one of them was feeling especially irritable.

"Not as human as most." Cas' response twists Sam's head on his neck. He stares over his shoulder, surprised and unsurprised at the other's callousness. Castiel is propped up against the headboard, shirt off and flannel pajama pants so low Sam can see where the line of his pubic hair begins. "We are not so unalike as we once were."

The words are strangely pacifying; they remind him of how futile it is to hold a grudge against Cas, no matter what his offense may be. Cas reaches out a hand, beckoning Sam closer. "Come lay with me, I've something I wish to tell you."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam says with a tight, untrusting smile. "I'm not sure I can handle anymore of your observations tonight, Cas."

"Why must you be so stubborn?" Cas grumbles and shifts onto his knees, walks them over the mattress until he is directly at Sam's back. His hands slide around Sam's shoulders and begin working open the buttons of his shirt. "I never _try_ to hurt you, Sam. Don't you know that?"

Sam lets his head fall forward on his neck, slumped in tired defeat as he allows himself to be undressed. Shirt pulled off, tank top skimmed up his torso and ruffling his hair as he's forced to raise his arms.

"Your heart is like an open wound that I keep scratching at," Cas mutters idly, almost like he's talking to himself. The soft pads of his palms skim down Sam's sides and then over his abs, fingers tickling down to the waist of his jeans. "But you must understand, I do not know how to be dishonest with you."

"I know, Cas," he sighs, tilting his head to let the soothing scratch of Cas' cheek press into his neck. His fly is pulled open, one-handed. That same hand dips in and cups him, already half-hard from Cas' confident handling of him. Lips and teeth scrape at his shoulder, tongue flicking out to lick and taste.

"Come now, Sam," Cas whispers low and hot at Sam's ear. "You know what I want."

And he does, he can map back to the moment that Cas got derailed by his touching. "I thought you had something to tell me," Sam says back, eyes closed and savoring the push of Cas' narrow chest against his back.

"Another time," Cas grumbles, sucks Sam's earlobe between his plush lips. "Right now I want only to have you."

Sam's head nods loosely on his neck, his hands go to the waist of his jeans and pushes them off with his boxers. Cas is already edging away, making room for Sam to lay out on the bed, which he does, face down on the sheets that smell like old sex sweat. He breathes it in, eyes clenched shut and hands fisted in the material, spread out and bare as he waits for Cas. The soft brush of flannel rubs his thighs as Cas knees them apart. "How is it that times like these are the only times we truly understand each other?" Cas questions. It's rhetorical so Sam doesn't answer, just waits for what he knows is coming.

There are luxuries they no longer have, things that made life easier before half the world burned, and one of those things is lube. But men were fucking each other before lube was ever invented and luckily, Cas knows just how it was done. Still, it never fails to twist a knot of shame in Sam's gut when Cas spreads his cheeks and spits on him. But he's grateful for how it eases the way, when Cas presses the blunt head of his cock right in.

Sam may not have immediately taken to cock-sucking, but this is something that he loved right away. The long, slow slide burning deep into him. He loves it so much, he never needs any prep, just opens right up to it, arching and needy like a bitch in heat as he's filled up. He'd always had an inkling that this might be something he'd enjoy, had never shied away from adventurous partners touching him down there, a finger or a tongue during oral, or even that one memorable time with the vibrator, but none of it had prepared him for how hard it makes him to have Cas inside him.

"Talk to me," Sam gasps out on a shaky breath. "I want to hear you."

Cas reaches over his head, mouthing against Sam's neck as he does it. He grabs up Sam's pillow, brings it down to shove under his hips and angle him the way he wants him. Sam immediately presses his hard-on into the softness and his mouth falls open on a silent moan when the movement causes Cas to slide against his prostate.

"What would you have me say, Sam?" Cas' voice is a warm growl in his ear, that _voice_ that just gets deep under Sam's skin and brings him alive with so much craving. A pull and thrust kills any response he might have, so Sam just keens and rocks back up for another. "Shall I tell you how hot and tight you feel around me?"

Another long, slow shift inside him and it catches and burns just the right way. Cas taking his time and moving like a rolling wave over him, into him. "Or how it excites me to know that I'm the only one to ever have you this way?"

His thighs start to sweat where Cas' flannels are still flush against his skin. It drives him even crazier to know that Cas couldn't even be bothered to remove them, like it would steal time from his need to be inside Sam, rocking in over and over until they're both sweating and panting from it. "What I really love," Cas tells him, good hand gripping Sam's hip to pull him into the next quick jerk, battered one twisting his head around to lick at the corner of his mouth, "is how much you want it."

Sam cries out from that, spreading his thighs even further, pushing back until he hears the slap of Cas' skin against his, feels the full length impaling him. It's the thing that sets Cas off, so he's pistoning in and out, rubbing Sam's sweet spot on every pass and tightening every muscle in his body with the intense need to come. His dick is being crushed into the pillow beneath him, but he doesn't need the friction, he never does, just the battering motion in his ass enough to make him come hard.

The bedsprings squeak and the sheets rustle, Sam's knees slide under the force of each thrust, getting pushed further up the bed by Cas' indelicacy. It's fast and dirty, vulgar in a way Sam doesn't have words for, and everything he needs riding him in brutal swipes until he's biting his forearm, teeth tearing the meat of it while he comes in long, hard jolts so strong they almost hurt.

It takes Cas moments longer to reach that point, but it doesn't disappoint Sam. He likes when he comes fast enough that he can clear his head and really, really focus on Cas. Every push, every grunt and gasp, every bruising finger digging into his flesh while Cas coils tight and gives over to it. That warmth that spreads inside of him, always uncomfortable and strange, when Cas pulses and comes. And the hitching breaths in his ear that are so very close to that sound people make when they're trying not to cry. It's all part of it, this thing that makes up his nights.

Cas collapses across his back, the dead weight of him flattening Sam across the mattress. He doesn't complain though, Cas is light enough that it's not uncomfortable, and the moments while he's pressed there are like Cas' personal brand of cuddling. It's nice.

"Sam?" Cas mumbles into his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"Do you want to know what I like the best about fucking you?"

Sam twitches in surprise, this is almost something like pillow-talk. He nods wordlessly, still enjoying the weight of Cas on his back. If he closes his eyes for a minute, he can almost pretend like Cas could keep him there, if he wanted to. Like he could've done when he was still an angel.

"I like the size of you. All of your length and muscle and still you let me hold you down and take you. You make me feel like I'm still strong," Cas tells him, nuzzling into his neck and pressing a kiss there. "You are all that I have. And there is so much of you, that sometimes it feels like enough."

~*~*~*~  
 _five months ago_ :

Golden-white fire roils across the sky, silver limned and full of crackling lightening. It opens up like a summer storm, letting loose fiery raindrops and burning millions to cinders. It would be gloriously beautiful, if it weren't so awful. Canada is now lost, along with most of the northern states.

For once, in what has felt like a very long time, they are not standing on a battlefield, just the edge of an abandoned suburban community. The empty shells of mass-manufactured housing at their back and open plains to their front. Thousands of miles away, the sky being lit up by an angel in his brother’s body and the angel’s brother, in the cracked and crumbling body of a man Sam has only known as Nick. It feels wrong, on many levels, but the one important wrong that he cannot seem to come to terms with, is that he should be there. This was not done as it should have been. What is his greater sin? That he refused his destiny, a destiny to bring mankind to its final destruction? Or that he feels guilty for it?

Beside him, Castiel gives a disgusted sniff and turns from the ugly beauty. Sam follows, as he always does. Further and further into the complex they move, the only living humans for miles around, possibly the only living creatures because it’s so quiet that there’s not a rustle. Their worn boots scuff over a smeared hopscotch pad, drawn in pink and green chalk. There’s an abandoned Razor scooter right next to it, almost like the parents decided the end of the world was too close while the children were in the middle of a game. It’s the next house that Castiel chooses, moving hunched but fluid up the flower-lined walkway. This house is no different than the other ten they passed, Sam wonders what made Cas choose it.

The knob won't twist when Cas' hand moves on it. He throws a glance over his shoulder at Sam, rolls his eyes, like he can't believe the former occupants would bother to lock up whilst fleeing for their lives. "Foolish humans," he grumbles before turning back and kicking the door open so violently that it bounces off the wall behind it. Sam flinches at the sound of it.

When Cas was still an angel, he had never said a disparaging word against the human species. Now that he's one of them, for all intents and purposes, he seems to find nothing but insults for them.

Cas moves into the house, heavy gray shadows swallowing him up and Sam startles and follows frightfully. He hates to have Cas out of his sight for even a second. When he sleeps, which isn't often, he has nightmares of Cas disappearing, just simply _not being there_ anymore. The clawing desperate ache it causes in him is something very similar to the way he felt when Dean sold his soul, similar only not quite the same. Cas feels like his only tether to sanity, which is ironic considering that the angel has gone something rather close to mad since he used up the last vestiges of his grace in the showdown at Bobby's. But Sam flatters himself to believe that he is perhaps the only thing too that keeps Cas from tumbling that last small distance into maddening despair.

"You're my friend," Cas told him once, with his skinny limbs knocking against him in shocky trembles as Sam tried to hold him down through convulsions. This wasn't news to Sam, but he was pretty damned surprised to hear that Cas actually understood it.

They move silently through the house, boots tracking through the dust on the hardwood floors, but barely visible in the dusky gray light. When they end up in the kitchen, which is brighter than the rest of the rooms due to the large, open window over the sink, Sam stops in the doorway and just watches Cas. And, though the light here is stronger, it's silvery and strange, outlining the slender spread of Cas' shoulders.

Cas pulls open the fridge and the smell of spoiled food drifts out far enough to make Sam's nose crinkle in distaste. He wonders how Cas can stand to hunker down and nearly stick his face right into it. Then he remembers that Cas once told him that everything smells dirty now, everything, and maybe he figures what's a hunk of moldy cheese compared to the sizzling flesh and burning hair scent they've both grown so used to.

When Cas comes back up, he's got two bottles of beer curled in the fingers of his right hand. Sam suddenly understands why Cas stopped at this particular house, it was the first one that had beer in the fridge. It's good to know that he's using what remains of his angelic spidey sense for the greater good. Sam meets him halfway and reaches over the kitchen island for what the other man has to offer. It's warm, but hell, it's some European imported shit too and he thinks he heard somewhere they drink it warm anyway.

"We'll stay here for a few hours," Cas tells him and Sam nods while filling his mouth with warm, foamy beer. "You need to get a few hours of sleep."

Sam eyes Cas from under his brows, decides not to mention to Cas that he's the one who needs sleep. He hasn't slept in probably three days at least.

They both push up to sit on the counter by the sink, elbows occasionally brushing and they're silent. It doesn't take long before they polish off all of the beer in the fridge, Cas drinking two more than him and grunting in complaint when the last is finished. It still takes him more than normal people to catch a buzz. Sam offers him the last half of his own, it's all just sloshing around in his empty stomach anyway.

When Cas is finished, Sam pushes off the counter and comes down with a thump. "Come on," he says. "Let's try to get a couple of hours before we have to move on."

"You go," Cas says with a shake of his head. "I'll stay up and keep an eye on things."

If he complains about Cas needing sleep, he'll only get a glare and the silent treatment for his troubles. He chews on his lower lip, considers his options and decides that the truth is the best one. "Come on, Cas. You know I can't sleep if you're not in the room."

Cas has a grip on the counter, hunching his shoulders up and making the slim corded muscles in his arms press up under lightly browned skin. He glances at Sam from the corners of his eyes. His pupils are blown out, probably from beer and exhaustion, but they're also sort of calculating. "Sure," he finally says, pushes off of his perch to gaze up at Sam, but there's something new in the way he's looking. "Let's go."

His throat is suddenly dry and he can't think of a reason why. His brows raise in surprise cuz now his heart-rate has kicked up and Cas is still staring up at him with those narrowed, calculating eyes. "Come on, Sam," he says, voice low and raspy like it used to be when he was still an angel. Sam nods once and spins around, puts his back to Cas and that bizarre way he's being _observed_.

Sam leads the way this time and that feels strange and backward. He's always taken flank, fallen in, followed the lead- with Dean, with Dad and now with Cas. Can't help but feel that Cas is still watching him. Up the thickly carpeted stairs and it would all be so much less disconcerting if he could hear Cas behind him and not simply _feel_ him there.

He stops at the top of the stairs, glancing right and then left, wondering which direction is most likely to have the master bedroom, least likely place to have a twin bed that he'd end up falling out of. "Go left," Cas tells him from behind and Sam sort of jerks at the sudden sound.

Sam hates how the house doesn't make any noises. The carpets are too plush, but it's so new, it should still be settling, and yet there's not a creak under his heavy weight. The silence has him rattled as he moves down the dark hallway and he has to glance behind him to affirm that Cas still follows. In the blanket of dark, no windows up here, Cas is as black as his shadow and it doesn't reassure Sam the way he'd been hoping.

The door at the end of the hall is cracked open, a sliver of silver light cutting a swath in the bleak air. Sam nudges it further open with only the tip of his finger and it swings in on its hinges with just a whisper-sigh of displaced air. He stands in the doorway, looking in on the wide-open room, the neatly made king-size bed piled high with a cushy comforter and a heaping stack of pillows. The large window over the bed and balcony door have vertical blinds that would click together if the air wasn't so still.

He stares so long that when Cas presses against his back, he startles and spins in surprise. The hand suddenly clutching at his side feels hot as a brand through his thin t-shirt. _What the hell?_ he thinks, because Cas never touches him. But he's touching now and all of Sam's senses are narrowed down to that one, hot press of flesh and bone. "Are you going in or not?" Cas asks, but there's no impatience or aggravation in his tone. And that's something not right too since Cas is forever snapping and snide with Sam.

"I-yeah, of course," Sam mumbles and turns again, walks too fast into the room and out of Cas' clutching grasp. _What the hell is happening?_ he wonders again. "What-" he starts and stops, and looking back over his shoulder sees Cas sitting in the center of the cream colored carpet, working open the laces of his boots.

It's still weird to watch Castiel do human things, like take his boots off or brush his teeth or scratch at the rough stubble on his neck. Weirder still is knowing that Sam had to teach him how to do some of those things. He learns things at a faster pace than average humans. Show him how to do something once and that's all he needs. As a result, Cas can break down a Sig Sauer P290 in twenty-two seconds flat every time, spar Sam (who outweighs him by at least fifty pounds) into a defensive chokehold in nineteen and hotwire a car in thirteen. And though Sam had to teach him how to do every one of those things, it's like he's seeing them for the first time every time.

When the boots are off, Cas stretches his legs out in front of him, flexes his socked feet and looks up at Sam. "Are you planning on sleeping in your boots, Sam?"

Sam narrows his eyes. It's a pretty casual question on anybody else, but since when has Cas given a shit about Sam's comfort or footwear? "You're acting strange," he says, and his tone sounds accusing, but he's thrown.

"Am I not always acting strange?" Cas asks and pushes himself to his feet in one fluid flex of sinew and muscle. He's wearing a pair of Dean's old jeans that droop low on his hips and the Stanford t-shirt Sam had stuffed in his duffel from when he was slender and didn't mind that the hem rode up too high. It rides up on Cas too, revealing the waistband of boxers and a flash of pale, flat belly. Sam swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

"Yeah, I guess you are," Sam mumbles and looks away. He always catches himself staring at Cas now, hypnotized every time by how suddenly the former angel has become comfortable in flesh that's not his own. "Whatever," he says dismissively and moves to sit on the edge of the bed to lean down and unlace his own boots. He tries and fails to ignore the weight of Cas' stare while he does this.

When he straightens up again, he jolts in surprise to find Cas standing in front of him. He hadn't heard him move, not even a whisper of fabric to alert him and it's almost like back when Cas could teleport himself into anyone's personal space in the blink of an eye. But it's not. "What-"

Cas cuts him off with a shush and presses his forefinger to Sam's slack mouth, dips the tip in and caresses over his tongue. Sam can taste gunpowder and sweat. "I want to kiss you," Cas explains. "Will you let me?"

Sam stares up at Cas, not far because even sitting Sam is so tall, and he feels stunned by the heavy knot of arousal that suddenly twists in his belly. He can't remember ever wanting another man the way he wants Cas. He can't remember ever wanting _anyone_ the way he wants Cas in this moment. And he can't remember nodding his agreement, but he must because Cas is leaning down, replacing his finger with his lips. Untouched for months, desire explodes in Sam's gut, shooting tickling little twitches of lust through every nerve in his body.

He palms the back of Cas' head, fingers laced through satin-soft hair, and pulls him in. It's all the encouragement Cas needs to knee in between the spread of Sam's thighs, pushing Sam back as hands slide under the hem of his shirt, dragging it up. Never a break in the kiss as Cas pushes closer, insistent tongue gliding between Sam's lips.

As he's pressed into the bed, covered by all that tight muscle and heat, Sam thinks that this is going to be quick. It's going to be clawing hands and hungry mouths, clothes pushed out of the way and shared breathing. No time for slow, savoring thrusts. No time to figure out how this goes. Just to touch, to get a little taste and make each other come however they can. And it's _so_ what they need that Sam can't even be sad that it won't be sweeter. They _need_ this.

~*~*~*~  
 _present_ :

Dean doesn't talk anymore. And his eyes have this constant faraway gaze to them, like he sees right through things, into other worlds that hold little more interest for him than the one in which he's currently living. But he hears and understands, takes direction if he feels amenable. Sometimes he doesn't and when that happens Sam sucks up the phantom taste of the old Dean, snarky and swaggery and more lovely than anything.

Michael had sworn to Sam that when he left Dean's body, his brother would be returned to perfect condition. He still can't help believing that the son of a bitch reneged on his promise, despite what Cas tells him. "There's no coming back from what Dean saw through Michael's eyes, Sam. Nor should there be. Dean knew what he was getting himself into when he said 'yes'. Let him suffer."

Let Dean suffer? You may as well ask Sam to cut out his own kidney with a rusty spoon.

And yet he's helpless to do otherwise. Instead he takes what satisfaction he can from Dean's complicity. There are hundreds of little chores to be done around the farmhouse, living in the middle of nowhere Nebraska. It makes Sam feel guilty half the time, to be puttering around chopping wood and washing laundry and tending to the potatoes and onions when there is still so much horror in the world. But Dean and Cas are in no condition to hunt anymore, so Sam stays where he's most needed.

The only hunting Sam does now is for food. Strange that in all of the years he's called himself a hunter, lived a life of cutting, shooting and killing, it took the apocalypse to get him to raise a rifle to an actual animal. But the skills his father taught him transfer easily and he's more often than not, successful in bringing home something to eat. Usually, he goes out looking for smaller game, but the winter is coming and they'll be needing more meat in their stores. This time he'll be looking for deer or wild boar. The woods he hunts aren't close and carrying something as heavy as that by himself would be tough. He knows he should take Cas with him, but is loathe to leave Dean to his own devices for the day. So, instead he decides to take his brother. Hey, it might even be like old times.

Dean's staring listlessly out of the window in the front room when Sam finds him. He'd been awake and dressed before either Sam or Cas crawled out of bed. And staring out that damn window the whole freaking time. Nothing but empty fields and that crooked, burnt out shell of a house on the distant horizon.

"Here," Sam says, thrusts a heavy Carhartt jacket to his brother's chest. Dean blinks and glances down. He takes it from Sam unquestioning and doesn't even look at him. Dean doesn't look directly at Sam much. He wishes he knew why. "Put it on."

For a few moments, Dean does nothing and Sam wonders if this is something he'll dig his heels in about. He almost hopes Dean will refuse, he misses the stubborn 'fuck you' attitude enough that he'll take what little he gets. He doesn't get it this time, Dean pulls the coat on with less than a few moments hesitation. Maybe he's glad to get out of the house for a little while. Maybe that's what it means when he stares out the window. Sam is always trying to analyze what Dean's actions mean, without any real hope of understanding. He didn't understand the man when he was loud and brassy, how can he hope to understand him now that he's mute and distant?

"You're taking him with you?" Sam hears. He glances over his shoulder and sees Cas leaning negligently against the entryway, bare arms crossed over his skinny chest. _It's chilly in the house, he should be wearing long-sleeves_ , Sam thinks. Instead of answering, Sam just nods and turns back to Dean to hand him a pair of heavy gloves to put on. "Do you think that's wise?"

"He needs to get out of the house for a while," Sam explains lamely. Can't really admit that he just wants his brother at his back again.

"So, plop him down on the porch and let him stare some more. Don't put a fucking gun in his hands and have him follow you out into the woods," Cas snarks at him. It's strange how Cas' snarky voice isn't much different from his regular voice. Or his bedroom voice. Cas always sounds bored and fucked out.

"I'm not giving him a gun, just taking him along for the ride," Sam explains and finally turns back. Cas is giving him that broody, pissed off look he gets whenever he thinks Sam is being stupid. That look has made a comfortable home on Cas' face. Sam walks over to where his rifle is leaning against the wall and hoists the strap over his shoulder. "Don't worry. It'll be fine."

"Last words of a dying man," Cas mumbles and turns to leave. He stops and glances over his shoulder. "Be careful," he warns before walking away.

"Come on, Dean," Sam says, and his brother follows him silently, head down as they leave the house. This will be the furthest Dean has gone from the farmhouse since they got there. _Maybe it will be good for him_ , Sam thinks.

The walk to the forest Sam hunts is only a little over two miles. It was a National State forest before the war and had been one of the few draws for tourists, practically the sole source of revenue for this area. Hunters from all over this state and the surrounding ones had come down for weekends with buddies, beer and ammo, in camo vests and orange hats, bitching about wives around campfires with cigarettes dangling from lips. It's gone to the wild now, taken back by the animals, like most of the world.

Half the walk is spent in heavy silence, Sam a few paces in the front. The other half, Sam keeps up a one-sided conversation, boring Dean with useless facts about the area, Indian tribes and animal migration. Then he reminisces about hunts they'd worked together in Nebraska, a haunting here, inbred kids gone feral in the walls of their father's house there. _Good times_ , he thinks.

Dean just ambles along behind him, hands shoved in the pockets of his heavy coat and eyes focused somewhere around Sam's feet. Sam stops his blathering when they hit the edges of forest, working around the heavy foliage as silently as they can. Dean has no problem with silent anymore. Here is the one time Sam can be grateful for that. Deeper and deeper into the woods they go, Sam crouching low under hanging branches, Dean a warm presence at his back, twisting his gut up with longing for times long gone.

When Sam catches sight of the slim-legged doe, tipping its head down to a lap at a stream, he raises his rifle with heavy regret and gazes sharply down the sights of the barrel. Sam sends out a silent prayer for forgiveness and shoots. The bullet punches into the breast of the unsuspecting animal, it canters unevenly on wobbling legs, mouth open on a silent cry before collapsing to the ground. Sam swallows down the violent urge to throw up and rises out of his crouch.

"Come on," he mutters, whisper-quiet to Dean. His brother is still in a crouch, fingers spread out in the scrub and pine needles. His breathing is heavier than usual, but other than that he seems okay. After a moment, he rises to follow Sam down a slippery hill, heavy boots getting soaked as they trip over wet stones across the slim stream. When they get to the animal, it's still gasping ragged breaths, staring glassily out at nothing and it punches a small whimper of pity out of Sam. Still, his hands are steady when he raises the rifle once more and shoots a messy hole into the head of the dying creature.

A shuddering gasp behind him has Sam whipping his head around. Dean is blinking, gasping and stumbling away from the awful, bloody sight. Curiosity is the first thing that strikes Sam, not concern, as he watches his brother shake his head and twist around. This is the most violent reaction Dean has had to _anything_ since he came back to them. "Dean?" he questions cautiously, waiting for more. Maybe a shout, maybe a laugh, who knows? But then Dean's eyes roll up into his head and he collapses into a dead faint. _Awesome_ , Sam thinks. _That's just great_.

~*~*~*~  
 _ten months ago_ :

Sam chokes back his despair and does as Castiel told him to do. He gets in his stolen car and drives for hours. What would be no more than a twelve hour drive on a normal day, turns into twenty-three, as Sam hits wild hail storms on the way. The highways are congested, the back roads washed out. Cars with flashing hazard lights line the shoulders, abandoned by their owners hours ago when the weather didn't let up. He can barely see three feet in front of the car and nearly ditches out in a couple of dangerous slides.

His eyes are bleary and dry, the already wavering asphalt lines dance merrily as he chases No-Doze with Red Bulls. He takes little comfort from the weather shift as he passes into Sioux Falls city limits. The rain dries up, the sky clear and starry, the roads empty of cars and pedestrians. It's the heaviest quiet Sam has experienced since River Grove, Oregon, streets emptied by the Croatoan virus. He really freaking hopes that's not what's happening here.

He's not exactly greeted with open arms when he gets to Bobby's. There's a group of seven hunters all gathered on the porch, itchy trigger-fingers just hovering over the butts of their guns when Sam approaches the house. No one draws on him, which surprises the hell out of him when he sees Tim and Hull glaring at him from the back of the pack. He tries to appear unconcerned when he mounts the steps and walks past the hostile assemblage, but he's still got a firm grip on the butt of his own pistol.

Bobby is hunched over his desk, talking to Rufus in low-tones, but when Sam comes in he glances up and sighs in relief. "Damn good to see you, boy," Bobby tells him gruffly.

"So, I guess you know then?" Sam asks. When Bobby nods, Sam drops into a chair, limbs heavy with exhaustion and relief. He didn't know how he could tell Bobby that Dean had said 'yes'. Just thinking the words closes Sam's throat up. "You having a party, Bobby?"

"Things are getting pretty nasty out there," Rufus pipes in, kicking back in his chair and eyeing Sam distrustfully. "Made sense to rendezvous here, come up with a game plan."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam says and slouches further into his chair. "Any brilliant ideas yet?"

"Other than keeping your dumb-shit ass as far away from the devil as possible, nope. We keep getting hung up on how the hell we're s'posed to do that."

"Perfect," Sam says dryly, shares a tense look with Bobby before he lets his eyelids drift closed. "Wake me up when Cas gets here." It could be minutes or it could be days before the angel finds him, but Sam plans to sleep until he shows.

Unfortunately for Sam, he gets maybe twenty minutes of an uncomfortable doze before being woken by one of the hunters he saw before stomping into the room, a young woman with a mean scar cutting across a once pretty mouth. "We got a problem," she tells Bobby and Rufus without sparing a glance at Sam. "Demons. A whole fuckload of 'em."

"How the hell'd they get past the wards?" Bobby wonders aloud, wheeling over to the window. Sam snaps himself fully awake, jumps out of his chair and goes to stare over Bobby's shoulder. There's a large group of men and women slowly gathering in front of the house.

"Get everyone in the house," Sam snaps at the girl. "Make sure the salt lines are all unbroken." The woman only hesitates for the barest of moments before going to do what she's told.

There's a flurry of movement as the group of hunters enter the house, running to lay thicker salt lines at all of the doors and windows, clomping up the stairs on heavy boots and tossing salt rounds to one another. Sam's loading up his shotgun and stuffing his pockets with extra rounds and holy water when he hears Bobby bite out a curse. "What is it?"

"That black-haired bitch is out there," Bobby tells him, hunching closer to the window with a scowl. "Meg."

"Fuck!" Sam curses himself.

"Oh, Saaaaaaaaam!" he hears Meg calling out, in that nasty sing-song voice of hers. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Sam pulls Ruby's knife from his belt, grips it tight and trembles with the overwhelming urge to tromp past the salt lines and stick it in Meg's throat. He's struggling with his rage, his black hatred and the near-constant craving for violence. This demon holds a special place in his heart, the only one to curl her black smoky presence up in his meat and bloody his hands.

"Let's negotiate, Sam!" Meg calls out, and he strides over to the window stare out at her. She's all smug smiles, wrapped in leather and tight jeans, hip canted out like a sassy little bitch. Sam's lip curls up. In that body she looks exactly like the kind of bad-girl Dean would have panted after when he was in high school. "If you come quietly, we'll let your hunter buddies live. I _promise_."

Sam's careful not to break the salt line when he raises the window and leans down to yell back. "Not exactly known for keeping promises, are you, Meg?"

"Wouldn't lie about this, Sammy," she says, red lips peeling back from her teeth in a falsely sweet grin. "I only want _you_."

"Tough shit," he growls back.

That awful smile stretches impossibly wider, like Sam is giving her exactly what she wants by refusing her. Meg gives a negligent little shrug. "Have it your way," she says before turning to the mass of demons surrounding her. There are dozens of them now, too many to count. "Smoke 'em out, boys!"

They're all grinning now, maniac smiles from the demon front lines that make Sam's stomach tighten with worry. When they pull Molatov cocktails from thin air and light them ablaze, Sam slams the window back down and dives away from it. Good thing too, 'cause it's the first window that's hit.

The glass shatters and flames erupt on the hardwood floor. This fucking house is like a powder-keg, all dried wood and heaping towers of books. It's been asking to go up in flames for years now, which is why they're lucky enough to have a fire extinguisher stashed under the desk. Bobby's already tossing it to Rufus when Sam runs through the entry, directing the anxious group of hunters to the kitchen for buckets of water and the other two extinguishers he's aware of. Even as he goes through the motions, Sam knows how hopeless it is. They're going to burn. They're all going to burn if Sam doesn't give himself up.

The sound of shattering glass erupts all around them, flames catch and lick up the walls alarmingly fast. One of the hunters, Sam doesn't know him, gets a burning bottle to the head and goes up in a shrieking blaze, stumbling around and lighting up everything in his path. Sam's heart is thunderous in his ears, heavy smoke fills his lungs and he coughs against it. The salt lines won't hold much longer and then the flames won't be their only worry.

He's weighing the merits of surrender now. Either he can give himself up, walk himself up to Meg and give over, hope that she makes good on her promise to let the others live. Or he can burn to death and wait for Lucifer to resurrect him. He never has to choose.

Castiel appears like a miracle right beside Sam. There's a very brief flicker of surprise in the angel's eyes when he takes in the scene, but he almost immediately jumps into action. Cas raises his hand before him, speaks words that Sam can't hear and the flames around them flicker and die down to smoking tendrils. Castiel spares a glance at the burnt out hole that was once the front room window before he holds out his hand to Sam and says, "Give me the knife."

"What are you going to do?" Sam chokes out as he obeys.

"I'm going to kill them all," Cas growls out and disappears.

By the time Sam manages to stumble over and peer through the smoking window, over the shoulder of the scarred woman, at least three demons are already dead on the ground. Meg is staring frantically around her as more of her underlings suddenly fall. Sam catches a flash of Castiel, appearing behind one demon, a crackle of electricity as he spears it through the throat and flicks away again.

The angel's movements are untraceable to Sam, no way for him to guess which demon will be next until the only one left standing is Meg. Since she's apparently the only of them with half a brain, she doesn't go down without a fight. When Castiel appears behind her, Meg twists quickly and catches his wrist before he can run her through.

From this distance, Sam can't make out the blur of their bodies as the demon and angel tussle in the dusty yard. He watches in horror as one of the junker cars is further crushed by Castiel's body being hurled into it. Sam is scrambling through the open window with no clear idea on how he intends to help, only that he has to, when Castiel pins Meg to the ground by a hand around her throat.

As Sam nears the fight, he hears Meg choke out her final words, resolved and taunting, "Go ahead, Clarence, stick it in me."

Cas raises the knife, stares stonily down at the demon-bitch beneath him and says, "With pleasure." The blade slices down and punches through Meg's heaving chest with a sizzling crackle. Cas' pale and drawn face is lit up by the flickers and when Meg slumps dead against the ground, he rolls away and collapses beside her.

Sam slides to a stop and falls to his knees at Castiel's side. The angel's lids are fluttering, flashing glimpses of glassy blue up at Sam. "It's dying, Sam," Castiel tells him in a raspy gasp. "My grace."

"You'll be fine, Cas. It'll be all right," Sam tells him feebly, hands hovering uselessly over the prostrate angel.

"Save your empty promises for someone stupid enough to believe them," Castiel grumbles tiredly. He reaches up and grasps the collar of Sam's shirt, yanks him down until their faces are only inches apart. "I'm going to pass out in a few seconds. When I wake up, I'm going to want a bottle of whiskey."

"O-okay, Cas, whatever you want," Sam stutters stupidly.

Cas releases him, brings his hand down to rest on his own chest, jolts and grunts with pain. Sam's brow furrows, he remembers having a similar reaction when Cas marked him and Dean with the Enochian sigil. He doesn't get the chance to ask because Cas does just as he said he would and passes out.

~*~*~*~  
 _present_ :

As soon as Sam's boot lands on the bottom stair of the front porch, the door is being yanked open. Cas stands in the doorway, practically humming with anger and hostility. Sam ignores the furious stare and grunts under the strain of his burden. Dean is a heavy son-of-a-bitch, thrown over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Sam had to stop no less than ten times on the way back home. Which is why they're back hours after he told Cas.

"You wanna give me a hand?" he asks as his knees threaten give on the next step.

"No, I do _not_ want to give you a fucking hand," Cas snaps and clomps angrily across the porch. Sam thinks the other man is contradicting himself when he reaches for Dean, but he's wrong. Instead Cas catches a grip around Dean's belt and yanks him off of Sam's shoulder so violently that his knee finally _does_ buckle under the added pressure. Dean's dead weight slides down and falls to the warping floorboards with a heavy thump.

"Jesus, Cas!" he yells in a combination of surprise and anger.

"You've been carrying him long enough," Cas grits out and pushes Dean's still unconscious body onto his back. If Sam weren't bogged down with exhaustion, he might be quick enough to stop Cas' hand from clapping across Dean's cheek in stinging slap.

"Wake up, you little bastard!" Cas shouts and slaps again before Sam can stop him.

Sam is about to muster up the last of his energy to wrestle Cas away from his brother when Dean's eyes snap open suddenly. _Well, shit_ , Sam thinks, _why didn't I think of that two miles ago?_

Funny enough, Dean's awakening does not halt Cas' hand and this time it lands with a closed fist against Dean's jaw. "Enough!" Cas shouts down at Dean. "I am done with your self-pitying, Dean."

Sam is crumpled uselessly across the uneven stairs, watching numbly as Cas pulls his fist back for another punch. This time though, the blow is knocked away and Dean lurches up to push Cas away. And then there's a sudden flurry of limbs that Sam can hardly believe, when a fight, a two-sided fight, between his brother and his lover erupts on the cold, dusty porch. Cas flails against Dean's heavier body, they roll and grapple, flashing fists glancing against Dean's face and ribs. He's not throwing any of his own punches, just pushing and pulling, gripping and holding at Cas' yanking wrists. Trying and failing for a very long time, to hold him down.

Sam watches all this in a sort of weary shock, until Dean gets Cas beneath him and flattens the full length of his body heavily against the other man. Arms spread out and wrists pinned to the ground, Cas makes a few more aborted efforts to get free when something stills him completely. "Stop," broken gravel voice that isn't Cas', "Cas, just- stop."

Dean tips down, presses his forehead against Cas', tiredly, tenderly. And he just holds it there, breathing into Cas' open mouth. When Cas' closed eyes squeeze out a tear, it hits Sam like a punch to the gut. "Oh," he mutters wonderingly. "Oh, of course."

Dean has spoken, finally, for the first time in months. And it's not to Sam, nope, it's to the man he loves. _Well, that's just perfect,_ Sam thinks numbly.

~*~*~*~  
 _three months and seventeen days ago_ :

The fight between Michael and Lucifer has spanned the globe, the archangels flitting in and out of existence, clashing against each other in a rain of fire and fury over San Francisco one minute and Bali the next. They stay only long enough to demolish everything in sight before one will fall back and the other will follow.

Sam and Cas keep track for as long as the radio waves carry news, then it's all word of mouth as they pass from town to town, doing all they can to stem the flow of violence. Monsters and demons are wreaking havoc wherever the angels aren't and there are too few hunters left to man the battlefield.

It's in a burning field at twilight when Michael comes to them, the sight of his brother's face painted over with angelic intent has Sam staggering away in horror. Cas stands his ground even as Sam falls back from that overwhelming, crackling energy. Cas' chin is tilted defiantly, his eyes narrowed and mean. All of that angelic bluster and foolish bravery making him more beautiful than ever.

"I have kept my promise, brother, to keep you safe," Michael says smugly and it's Dean's voice, but isn't at the same time. It's smoother, flatter, no huskiness or personality. It's entirely possible that Sam would have been sick if Cas didn't choose that very moment to smash his fist uselessly against the delicate rise of Dean's cheekbone. Michael's head barely tilts under the blow, but Sam hears the crunching sound of bones breaking and Cas' sharp cry of pain.

"Well, that was productive," Michael comments blithely, face smooth and lifeless as he examines Cas' hunched form. There's barely time for Sam to catch Cas in a bear-hug before he attempts to launch himself at the archangel and break further bones against that immovable body.

"Is _this_ your paradise, brother?" Cas shouts furiously, gesturing wildly at the burning fields surrounding them. "Are you happy now?"

The sad gaze Michael turns on Cas in that moment is the closet the angel ever comes to resembling Dean. "This world will heal itself, Castiel, as it has always done in the past. And perhaps then, what is left of humanity will no longer take it for granted."

Awful pain takes the fight out of Cas and he slumps tiredly in Sam's arms, but he keeps his angry gaze on Michael. "Close your eyes now, Sam, and I'll return your brother to you. Unbroken and healthy, just as I promised."

For a long moment, Sam stares back over the spikes of Cas' crazy hair. "You know, Sam? I won't be surprised if you and I meet again," Michael says, quirking Dean's lips in the facsimile of a smile.

Sam closes his eyes and buries his face in Cas' sweat-damp neck, more to block out the wretched sight of his brother's empty gaze than to protect his sight. He breathes harshly and tightens his hold on the man in his arms until Cas speaks. "It's done, Sam. Michael is gone."

Dean is on his knees, trembling and gasping, clawing at the ground. Then he pitches forward face-first, an unconscious mess of humanity.

~*~*~*~  
 _present_ :

Sam sits on the bed he shares with Cas, glaring once again at the ugly, curling wallpaper. He's barely holding himself up with his elbows on his knees, more physically and emotionally worn out than he's been since the end of the war.

He's not sure how he should be feeling right now. Usually, he'd want to take long moments to dissect each emotion as it comes to him, but he just doesn't have it in him right now. He's in some weird emotional limbo, torn between happiness that his brother has finally snapped out of it and bitterness that it was Cas' fury that finally did the trick. Dean came back for Cas. He doesn't know who to be jealous of or even if he has the heart for anything as petty as that. And what does it say about him if he doesn't?

The sound of the bedroom door opening behind him doesn't even make him twitch. Sam just continues to stare listlessly while Cas enters the room. He feels the bed dip under Cas' weight, the springs creaking loudly as Cas knee-walks right up against the bowed line of Sam's back.

"Are you angry with me?" Cas asks, resting his chin on Sam's shoulder and wrapping his arms loosely around the broad width of his shoulders. Sam glances down to watch Cas' slender fingers curve around the wrist of his other arm. It's a sort of negligent hug, Cas surrounding Sam the best he can with his smaller frame.

"I don't know," Sam answers honestly. He knows he damn-well should be. Maybe he'll have enough energy for a good bluster after he gets some sleep.

"Do you remember last night? When I told you there was something that I wished for you to know?"

Sam sighs and his heavy head droops lower on his neck. "Can this wait, Cas? I'm exhausted."

Cas turns his face into Sam's neck, his eyelashes tickle-fluttering against the sensitive skin. "When I pulled Dean from Hell, when I rebuilt him with my grace, I left something of myself inside of him."

Sam's eyes drift closed, he wants not to hear this, wants only to pitch forward into a dreamless sleep. Instead he hums at Cas' pause, lets him know he's still listening.

"So, you see? It was inevitable for me to love him," Cas tells him in a low, reverent voice, like he's sharing his darkest secret.

"I get it, Cas," Sam says back, stiffening up under the other's loose embrace. He wants desperately to shrug Cas off, crawl under the blankets and sleep until the hurt dims. "I think I always knew you loved him."

"Of course you did, Sam. You've always been able to see Dean's worth. You're just ignorant of your own." Cas presses a dry-lipped kiss into his jaw, noses gently against his stubbly cheek. It feels nice, but unusual to have Cas treat him so affectionately. "My love for you, Sam, has nothing to do with any kind of preternatural bond. It is based solely on your worth."

A reluctant smile tugs at Sam's lips, he sways languidly into the hot line of Cas' body. "Love me, Cas?"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

~*~*~*~

He's not meant to have this. Tangled limbs and slow, sticky kisses, slight weight pressing him to the mattress, heavy breath at his neck. A smooth, burning slide of skin on skin and lazy thrusting. Sharp arching hips, pushing bruises into his and warm splashes of spent passion drying coolly on his stomach. It's not meant to be his, but he'll take it. He supposes he's earned it.

(The End)


End file.
